Too Much In This World
by otherhawk
Summary: AU from AU. The way 'Falling Like Dominoes' could have happened. Angst warning.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Ocean's 11**

**A/N: This idea is most definitely InSilva's, I simply wrote it. The responsibility clearly lies with her.**

**A/N2: The way 'Falling Like Dominoes' could have happened. **

* * *

It wasn't even a rumour. It was a crude joke he'd heard Andy Johnson tell Chester Temple in the middle of a seven hour stake-out. Some inside gag from that investigation on prison violence they'd been assigned last month as a punishment for being thrown out of sensitivity training.

It was just a joke. Not a funny one. And the point was there were nearly two thousand men in North Jersey State Prison. And Bobby had no idea how many of them his colleagues would describe as "pretty blond fags" - and certainly he didn't want to know. Just that he knew one name that would appear on that list. One name. Out of two thousand. There was nothing he should be worrying about. Certainly there was nothing he could do about it now. And the next few days were taken up with arrests and paperwork and listening to his fellow agents complain that criminals didn't stop for Christmas and the whole thing was shoved to the back of his mind.

Not forgotten though. Certainly not forgotten. And during Sunday dinner he found his mind wandering back to the joke and to the awful impossibility. So much so, in fact, that Molly had to kick him sharply in the shin to get him to pay attention to Linus' eager recitation of the pigeon drop he'd improvised that afternoon. He managed to nod encouragingly in all the right places. Offer some constructive criticism. But he kept thinking and when Linus had finished helping them decorate the tree, bid them a cheerful goodnight and headed home for the evening, Molly turned to look at him.

"Okay," she sighed. "What is it? Bureau or real life?"

He smiled a little, as he always did, at the fact that she absolutely refused to take his job as an FBI agent seriously. "Both," he told her and then reconsidered. "Neither," he added, just as certainly.

She raised her eyebrows. "Least you're definite," she noted. "Come on. What's bothering you?"

Sitting down heavily on the sofa, he sighed. "A joke Andy Johnson told a few days ago."

"You trying to figure out the punchline?" Molly asked with a smirk.

"Hoping there isn't one," he said seriously. "They were talking about endurance and they ended up laughing about a guy in North Jersey State Prison being raped and beaten to death."

Molly's face twisted with disgust. "And there's something funny about that?"

"No," he said heavily. There was nothing funny about that.

She blinked and suddenly seemed to catch the way he was thinking. "_No_," she said certainly. "No, you worry too much."

"You think so?" he asked hopefully.

"Definitely," she nodded. "It won't be him."

He still wasn't quite convinced. Saying it out loud wasn't making anything better. "They described the guy as blond and pretty. Rusty is - "

" - so's Jude Law," Molly interrupted firmly. "I doubt it's him either."

He nodded and didn't say anything.

She stared at him and for a while there was silence.

"It _can't _be him," she said eventually. "It really can't. Someone would have told us. We would have heard."

"Right," he agreed, relieved. It was a good point. That sort of news got spread quickly. He was worrying over nothing. It couldn't be. Couldn't be Rusty. Couldn't be Rusty who'd died, horribly and pointlessly and alone. Couldn't be Rusty who'd been reduced to an obscene punchline.

"You'll check it out tomorrow?" Molly asked quietly, and despite everything the worry was visible on her face.

"First thing," he promised and he stood up quickly and held her close to him.

* * *

Monday morning and he was reading Johnson and Temple's report. Except he wasn't reading it. He was just staring at five words. Five words that didn't make _sense. _Five words that left him stunned and shaking and angry.

Robert Charles Ryan. Deceased 08/20/97

* * *

The good thing about being the rightful owner of an FBI badge was that it got him into nearly anywhere without having to explain himself too much.

He'd swept into the prison, confidence and condescension and the boredom of routine. A follow-up to a separate investigation. Loose ends to be tied up. Details. He was an FBI agent on a dull assignment. Not a man trying to trace the last, dying moments of a friend.

He needed to see for himself. He needed to _know._ The report hadn't given any real details. Rusty had just been another statistic. Bobby needed to _know_.

The warden had been of little use. Anxious to tell him anything he wanted to know, yes, but he hadn't known anything, and the only point he'd really wanted to get across was that he was in no way to blame. The system wasn't at fault. These things happen. These things don't matter so much anyway. Bobby had done his best to stay professional, even as the moron wondered aloud why the FBI were so interested in a lowlife con who'd died four months ago.

There was part of Bobby that wanted to explain very, very slowly, in great detail, exactly why it mattered, exactly what Rusty was . . . _had been_. Had been. Christ, this was unbelievable. Unbearable. How the fuck had this happened?

The warden had sent him to the doctor, who was eager enough to talk. Once he was convinced that no one was going to be getting in trouble, anyway.

"Sure, I remember him," the doctor – Miller – nodded. He laughed slightly. "Well, obviously I remember him. Not every day a prisoner dies, you know. But I'd remember him anyway. Saw him three times, including the last time. The first time was nothing, just some fight. The second time . . . " He sighed. "These things happen, y'know?"

"What things?" Bobby asked and his voice didn't crack and didn't betray anything he was feeling.

Miller shrugged. "Lock two thousand men in together, things happen. People get frustrated. And someone has to be on the bottom of the pecking order. And Ryan . . . well, he was a good looking guy. Good looking in the wrong way. Pretty, is probably the word. Slim built and dainty too. Looked like a male model, or something. Like he spent his life sipping little drinks and giggling. Guys like that, they don't have the strength to stand up to this place."

There was very little of Rusty that Bobby recognised in that description. Nothing of inner steel and fire and diamond-sharp brilliance. "You thought he was weak?" he asked, as if the idea was nothing to him.

Miller hesitated. "Not weak, exactly," he conceded. "I mean, three hours after he was brought in here, the second time, he was sitting up and chatting about silent movies, like there was nothing bothering him. And this was while I was stitching him up, you know? And when you look at the _stairs_ . . . no, I guess I wouldn't say he was weak. Just the way he looked, the way he acted. Guys like that should steer well clear of prison."

"Guys like that?" Bobby asked coldly, even while part of him was screaming that all of his friends should steer well clear of prison.

"I hear a lot of rumours," Miller explained. "Apparently on the outside he liked guys. That's not so smart in here. And he didn't exactly seem the violent type. Guess he was in for something white collar."

"Grand larceny," Bobby corrected. He didn't even know why.

"Really?" Miller looked surprised. "Well, hell. Anyway, guys like that, the only way they're going to survive is if they find someone tougher and give them everything in exchange for protection."

"Whore themselves out, you mean," Bobby said, and his face was blank and his soul was twisted inside at the very idea. _Rusty._

"Beats the alternative," Miller said firmly. "Let me show you." He raised his voice. "Moffatt!"

The orderly sidled up, smiling obsequiously and looking curiously at Bobby. "Yes sir?" he asked politely.

"Go fetch the Ryan file from my office, will you?" Miller ordered.

Bobby noticed the way that the orderly's eyes glazed over, just for a moment. Noticed the darting tongue running over the lower lip._ Hated_. "Of course, sir," Moffatt nodded and vanished.

"He a con?" he asked, with idleness that was anything but.

"Yes," Miller nodded, looking slightly surprised. "Good orderly, though. He was actually a nurse before he got locked up. Keeps his head in a crisis."

Bobby nodded slowly. "How did . . . Ryan die?" he asked abruptly with a certain amount of difficulty. "The report said he was taken to hospital and died there?"

"Yeah," Miller agreed. "Poor bastard didn't really have a chance, you know? He'd lost so much blood, had so many injuries. His body just gave up on the table."

"How did he die?" Bobby asked again and this time there was an edge to his voice, an edge of pain and misery.

Miller blinked at him. "Maybe you should read the file," he suggested, and Moffatt brought it over and it was passed from Moffatt to Miller to Bobby.

With as much steel as he could muster, Bobby opened the file and immediately bit down hard on his tongue, to stifle everything he wanted to say. Scream. Nothing here that mattered to him, that's what he had to keep reminding himself. What he had to keep pretending. His face a mask, he settled down to read about his friend's death.

* * *

Bobby stood in the middle of the little room beneath the kitchen and stared down at the concrete floor. If he squinted hard enough he could fool himself into thinking he could see the faintest impression of the bloodstains that had been in the photos. The reality was the room had been scrubbed. There was no trace of Rusty left here at all. No lasting imprint of suffering.

He wondered. If it was was Danny standing here – or Saul – would they be able to sense, to see, to imagine the hours of agony in the room.

There had been bloodstains all over the ground _here, _where Rusty had been raped and beaten. Hurt, God knew how. God knew how many times. They'd found the iron piping there. It had lain undisturbed and evil in the photos, sharp and stained with blood, the photos next to a short, clinical description of exactly how it had been used. How it had been used on _Rusty_. He'd struggled to hide his distress behind the mask of indifference, struggled to avoid going out into the prison and demanding answers, struggled, most of all, with the knowledge that it didn't_ matter_ what he did, he was a lifetime too late for it to make any difference. Rusty was gone. And nothing was going to bring him back. Rusty had died, alone and in agony, and that was that.

The largest pool of blood had been there. Rusty had obviously lain there for sometime after the bastards had left him. No one would ever know how long. Whether he'd been unconscious. Whether he'd been waiting for someone to rescue him. He thought of the Rusty he'd known. Probably not. At any rate no one had come for him and Bobby's eyes traced over the vanished trail of blood that lead across the floor and then all the way up the stairs.

"_Impossible,_" Dr Miller had said and there had been genuine awe and wonder in his voice. "I told your colleagues you should start an investigation into how the hell he did _that._ Talk about feats of endurance."

Bobby had nodded and hadn't pointed out that in the end it had all been for nothing.

He measured the distance with his eyes and wondered. Five broken ribs, a broken collar bone, a dislocated hip. Internal injuries that Bobby didn't want to think about. The pain must've been . . . the pain must have _been._ And Rusty hadn't even been able to stand. Had dragged himself all that way by his fingertips. Where had he found the strength? The will? Stupid, stubborn, brilliant bastard. You were supposed to be immortal.

He walked up the stairs slowly, imagining each unbearable step, imagining every inch of pain. The door at the top and Rusty had got it open. Had thought ahead. Been that desperate to live that, battered and bleeding, violated and dying, he'd still thought everything through.

The door opened from both sides now. And it was always kept locked. Bobby opened it and stepped out into the kitchen. Rusty had dragged himself that far. Bobby had spoken to the men who'd found him. Had listened to their sniggering and their lying denials of knowing who was responsible. (He'd get to that later. When there were no witnesses.)

Eventually, with a mixture of patience and cold threats, they'd told him what they'd seen. And more importantly what they'd heard. Rusty's last words. "Danny . . . Danny. Please."

Bobby found he could imagine the tone. The need, the desperation. He wondered if Rusty had known he was dying. Wondered if Rusty had really thought that Danny would come for him.

Danny.

He was running out of excuses.

* * *

He eventually tracked Saul down to Vegas. Visiting Reuben. Which was good. Might make the unthinkable easier.

He'd headed out straight from the prison, stopping only to phone his boss to say he needed to take a few personal days, and to phone Molly to say very little. He wouldn't – couldn't – tell her over the phone. She'd always been fond of the boys. And he didn't want to go home until he'd seen Saul and Danny. Because, somehow, he suspected that if he went home, he wouldn't be in a hurry to leave again. And that just wouldn't be fair. So he called Molly and told her he was safe and that he'd be home when he was home. And that everything wasn't all right. They'd both made enough awkward phone calls for her to understand. To tell him again how very much she loved him. It helped.

They'd met him in Reuben's house. He politely refused all offers to let Dominic get him something. Sat down and looked at them and they already knew something was wrong.

Well over a decade the three of them had known the boys. They'd watched the pair of them grow up. Become the men they were meant to be. Didn't matter that months could go past at a time without seeing each other, their little community was tight-knit. And this was hell.

"What happened?" Saul asked quietly.

"I'm sorry," he began gently. "Rusty's dead."

Saul closed his eyes, ageing decades in an instant. Reuben stared disbelievingly. "How?" he demanded. "He _can't_ be."

"He was killed," Bobby explained.

"How?" Reuben demanded again.

"He died in hospital," Bobby chose to say. "Under anaesthetic. He . . he wouldn't have known anything about it." They'd handcuffed him. Standard procedure, Bobby knew that. But the idea that Rusty had died in handcuffs . . .Bobby couldn't say just why it was so wrong.

"_Why_?" Reuben tried desperately.

Bobby hesitated. No damned reason, of course. There could never be any reason. And he wanted to protect them from as much of the truth as possible. "Just a fight that got out of hand, near as I can tell," he said quietly. "Think Rusty was just in the wrong - "

" - Bobby," Saul cut in quietly, his eyes fixed on Bobby's face, his eyes full of pain and darkness.

Bobby sighed. "He was . . . attacked."

"He'd fight," Saul said flatly.

"He fought," Bobby nodded. "He died."

Reuben looked from one to the other. "No!" His voice was disbelieving and angry.

"I'm sorry," Bobby said again.

Saul nodded tightly. "You told Danny yet?"

"No." He hesitated. "I was hoping you knew something about why they argued?"

Sadly Saul shook his head. "I asked Danny. Lots of times."

Bobby nodded. They all had. Didn't matter in the end. "This is going to kill him."

"Yeah," Saul agreed vacantly. He looked up at Bobby sharply. "The funeral . . ."

Oh, hell. "It's past, Saul," he said gently. It had, such as it was. A prisoner with no family, no next of kin. There hadn't been much of a send off. Cremated, and there was no marker. Nothing to say that Rusty had ever been. "He died four months ago."

He turned away from the grief.

* * *

He stood in the colourless hallway, not looking at the lifeless photos or the artificial plants and doing his best to ignore the panpipe carols. He'd hoped to catch Danny at work, but he'd already left for the day. This was nowhere he'd expect Danny to be. No-one he'd expect Danny to be. Even if, for whatever reason, Danny had needed to go straight, he could surely have found a different job. Something less stifling. Someplace less soul-destroying. In some inexplicable way this place reminded him of the prison he'd just left. He wondered, vaguely, if Danny was punishing himself for something.

Getting Danny's home address only took slightly longer. He'd never been there before; Danny and Tess had moved after Rusty went to prison and, while he'd never said so in so many words, Danny had made it perfectly clear that he didn't want to see anyone from the old days.

And yet when Tess opened the door, she looked pleased to see him. "Bobby. Please. Come in."

He smiled and offered polite greetings and followed her into the house. Danny's smile was distant and the pleasantries were forced. He looked . . . _less . . . _ than the last time Bobby had seen him.

"It's about Rusty," he started, once they were all sitting down.

"Not interested," Danny said immediately, starting to stand up. "I don't want anything more to do with him."

"He's dead, Danny," Bobby said, quickly and quietly.

Tess gasped. Danny sat down again and stared at his hands for a long time. "In prison?" he asked eventually.

"Yeah," he agreed softly.

"Did it hurt?" Danny asked, after another eternity.

"No," Bobby said immediately, and winced as Danny looked up sharply, and he'd swear that Danny didn't just read the truth from him, he'd swear that Danny read _everything._ Every last detail he'd found out. Everything he was trying to blank from his own memory.

"Right," Danny said at last and went back to staring at his hands. "That everything, Bobby?"

"Danny - "

" - like I said," Danny cut in tightly. "I'm not interested."

"_Danny." _Tess sounded shocked.

"I'm not," Danny insisted. He looked at Bobby. "I think you should go now."

He hesitated. "You going to - "

" - just leave," Danny said tightly.

Sighing, he got up. "Saul wants to talk to you," he told Danny. Saul hadn't been up to making the trip.

Danny nodded and didn't look as if calling Saul was ever going to be on his mind.

Tess went into the hall with Bobby and caught his arm when he was leaving. "He can't be dead," she said in a whisper.

He looked at her, frowning. "I'm sorry, Tess," he said gently. "He is."

"He went to prison for Danny," she blurted out. "Because I asked him to."

There was a long moment where all he could do was stare at her. "What?"

"He said that Danny was going to be arrested. And I said that I wouldn't take Danny back if he was arrested. I couldn't handle Danny being in prison, Bobby, I just _couldn't. _And Rusty said he'd take care of it, and we both knew what he meant and I didn't stop him. But I never thought it would mean Danny would stop talking to him. I never thought he'd be hurt. I never thought he'd _die._ He wasn't supposed to die."

He stared at her and thought of everything he'd seen that day and knew she'd never even imagined the consequences. And he knew that Rusty must have considered them. "He wasn't supposed to die," he echoed. "But he did."

As the door closed behind him, he heard her start to cry.

He went home to tell Molly.

* * *

Three days later he heard that the day after he'd been there, Danny had got up, dressed in black, kissed Tess on the cheek, left for work and vanished somewhere along the way. That was the last anyone ever heard of him.

* * *

**Like I said. Not the way it happened in 'Dominoes'. **


End file.
